


The Color of Death

by Ozma



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Ascian, Other, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 10:10:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19721548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozma/pseuds/Ozma
Summary: 5.0 conclusion spoilers.While poisoned in the Rak'tika Greatwood, the Warrior of Light encounters Death andremembers.





	The Color of Death

**Author's Note:**

> A reincarnation romance.
> 
> Thanks to Zahira for tolerating my constant fussing and screaming.

In and out, they arrive and they depart, slipping to and fro as wakefulness fades to unconsciousness.

Visitors come less frequently now and, when they do, regret is bared so openly that it needs no words. What rare times your companions speak, 'tis only riddles, nonsense under their breaths about poisoning by 'the Children,’ though why a child would loathe you so remains outside your ken.

And so you sleep, in the comforting embrace of darkness where your innards do not burn, your stomach does not rise, where the light does not sear, and where your friends' unhidden tears do not threaten to loose themselves.

Or so it should be, but an irritating nag disrupts desired serenity. Familiar and urgent, ‘tis a feeling you well know, one that is prelude to the arrival of an -

\- a _what?_

Fever’s delusion slips memory from your grasp and you cannot but observe as shadow births shadow; swallowing the flickering candlelight, its presence tingles like the ‘blessed’ water they bathe you in.

In silence, darkness writhes; with each ilm it nears, His presence invokes basal terror. Like facing down a foe that wholly overpowers you, the chills that course your flesh spread prickles down your back that weaken your muscles and blind your sight to aught save the intruder.

A color unto itself, Death is undeniable.

Though naught in His demeanor suggests intimidation or threat, panic grips your chest; heartbeats pound in your ears, ragged breaths spurring a return of blood-soaked coughs that render you fully inert.

Even half mad with terror, the irrationality of it all is recognizable, but logic holds no strength over ancient instinct when every memory burned into your body screams that the end is come.

Death owes naught to the mortals He guides, but still He observes, impassively waiting for your fit to subside in unknowable expectation.

“You’ve come. . .” Such incoherent greetings are barely more than a babe’s babbles to a force of nature, but you cling closely to your pride, choosing to face Him with what little dignity remains to you.

Aye, Death owes naught to mortals, but He kneels at your bedside nonetheless, as if to ease your passage.

Shadowy fingers fall onto your forehead; though warm and soft, the touch of the unknown – of inevitable abyss – makes you flinch at even the slightest pressure

A low ‘ _tut_ ’ reveals Death’s disapproval, even if the neutrality in His tone does not. "You needn't fear."

‘tis not a familiar voice, but you know it all the same, and in its wake e'er comes -

-the answer eludes, for He gifts only emptiness.

With time’s passage, raging coughs subside, but the trembles do not - not until you've exhausted them and can move no longer, long after the cold touch of His hand warms to nigh burn.

For once, you’ve thankfulness for whatever herbs your companions imbibe your soups with; without them, you’d have long since fallen into eternal slumber. 

Death’s patience is absolute, but opportunity does not pass Him by and only too late do you comprehend ritual's initiation. At His mercy, star and flesh twine together, consciousness spiraling as it swirls into familiar disorientation.

_The lights flicker on, signifying the arrival of nightfall._

_Be it curiosity or lamentation, some whim pulls you from your work and to the window. Peeking ‘twixt curtains, the orange glow of sunlight slinks below the horizon; in its place, golden lights and black spires form tapestry to decorate the sky itself, towering well beyond the limits of sight. Below, streets and the individuals walking them are distant enough they appear to easily rest upon a finger._

_ “Have you finished?” _

_He rouses at your distraction, meeting you at the window so that you might share the moment. The man with Death’s color roams his feathery touch across your back, hand coming to rest on your hip and drawing you near into familiar comforts._

“ –”

“Pardon?”

You know not what you’ve done to still His cold hand, but Death demands elaboration. The pulsing beat of His color blinds your swirling vision until the shadows dance and reality blends with perfect fantasy, but even shrouded in shadow, ‘tis clear by the intensity of His attentions that you’ve spoken something you might soon regret.

Through pained breaths, the ephemeral warmth of delusional, feverish memory fades, replaced with the hard darkness of the present, a world that reels with each motion and burns with each breath. Whether ‘tis fear or desperate longing that tempts, you find yourself speaking when you might otherwise keep your silence.

"I know you."

With each inhale, there is chance His touch might return; each exhale might be your last.

". . .That you do." Perpetually enigmatic, Death rises with a curiously mortal sigh, the void where His touch once rested summoning more longing than relief.

Though no mortal might overcome Death, with adequate interest, one might forestall Him; He returns to a silent, distant vigil paces away, seemingly without further intent to interfere. Distant enough that once-raging instincts calm, terror at last releases its irrational grasp, leaving only exhaustion in its wake.

At the back of your mind, vaguely irritating whispers of memory scold you for your overexertion, warning that you’ve sped the burning passage of toxin through your veins; they are but fleeting doubts, for heavy lids refuse to bear their burden any longer, tempting your return into the ideal dream from agonizing reality.

When He speaks again, ‘tis little more than a hum as consciousness slips into blessed fantasy.

_Stars rise over the city, each spire a candle, your own quarters playing equal role in illuminating the serene vista._

_You see naught of it, your back pressed against the night-chilled glass as it is; with such avarice, his hands claim all he might, breaths heavy against your neck, each taste of aether further nearing flesh until 'tis nigh as indistinguishable as your souls._

_Incited by his touch, tingles spread pulsing waves of warmth from your core to your extremities, rolling into him – welcoming him._

Each detail is yours, absorbed and replayed until you swear you've lived it thousands of nights and could live it thousands more without becoming worn.

But, grasp as you might, in desperation or desire, ne’er does dream take form in reality; eventually, the city of stars fades into a sea of darkness - but not to the cold embrace of nothing you half expected.

"Do not disappoint." His voice is clear- far clearer than you knew before - and at last you comprehend the entity with clarity of mind, a veil lifted.

“What -?”

Unknowable in intent, the shade of Death fades once more, leaving you alone in the darkness as He awaits the next opportunity to claim His quarry.

* * *

In the distance, the muted, festive cries of the Night’s Blessed hum, celebrating embrace by the sunless sea.

Before you, persistent recurrence of incompatible images: a nightless city – and one bound to eternal night.

Certainly, the ancient mural barely depicted what one might call a city at all, simplified as it was, but even in such a state, ‘tis clear Death demands His demented tribute; poison-rotted flesh restored – _reborn_ \- as if ne’er damaged, fingers clutch and loosen and with each motion. As with the city, truth clashes with memory.

_Which was the proper order?_

“Is this not a time for celebration? Yet here you remain, brooding.” Stricken from your thoughts, you look to the intruder, having neither heard nor felt the Ascian's entry. “I hope it wasn’t my lesson that soured your mood.”

Below the Ascian’s casual bluntness lies mystery; so different he had been while weaving his tale. Those few fleeting instants of vulnerability are full absent now, and, as with all encounters previous, you cannot but wonder at his purpose.

“’twas thought provoking.” Opting for caution, you reveal only necessity; though Emet-Selch shares his tales easily, he does so only to further his cause.

“You seemed interested in one in particular.” He _was_ watching; without knowing, you’ve been inducted into his game, one where both rules and stakes are unclear.

You cross your arms over your chest, dismissing the Ascian with disinterest - an effort that proves quickly futile, as he settles in equally stubbornly, mimicking the motion.

“Certainly you’ve better things to do.” A raised eyebrow is his only response, speaking as clearly as words that he’ll not leave without an answer. You yet remain in the Ascian’s graces, and he has admittedly proven useful; with great hesitation, you admit 'twould not do further add an obstacle in your quest - especially one born solely from a bout of stubbornness. With a sigh, you relent. “The city.”

“What of it?” Having not thought to share the strange fantasy, you hesitate briefly, but quickly think better of it; already the vision returns – as does the longing.

“Black spires reaching the sky itself, glittering lights adorning their walls. . .” You shake your head; for but a dream, the image remains, summonable in an instant, as easily as you might conjure an image of the Rising Stones or House Fortemps manor. “That such glory might burn –“

All trace of flippancy gone, Emet-Selch’s gloved fingers cling tightly at the leather of his jacket.

“All that from a simple painting on the wall! If I didn’t know better, I’d say the Champion of Man was delusional.” The intensity proves fleeting; fingers loosed, he shrugs, as casual as he e’er is, words just as nonsensical. “But I do.”

You draw back, breath hitching in your chest.

“How many times has it been, that I’ve borne witness to your final moments? ‘ _How much longer_?’ I oft wondered. But this time – _this_ time –“

He meets your eyes, the weight in his shoulders returning.

“-You remembered.”

His hand goes to his forehead, but before you can comprehend either word or action, a spike of familiar disorientation floods your vision with white, drowning your senses.

_Step after step, breaths are shared as you traverse gilded streets. Roaming in silence, the splash of fountains fades at your back, replaced with a faint spring breeze dancing through stray leaves and the lingering scent of freshly blooming gardens._

_“Wow! Look –" Rounding the corner, excitable cries echo through the otherwise peaceful passage; curiosities rapidly spill, each overcoming the last in volume and passion at such a rare opportunity. _

_Handling the young visitors with deftness born only of extensive experience, he dismisses with a gentle scold._

_ “Not today, children. If you wish for a tale, you must speak with the secretariat.” _

_Though not an unexpected result, the children prove displeased at the development, their giggling queries quickly falling into broody silence, dutifully shuffling away whispering complaints under their breath. ‘twill not be long before their encounter is all but forgotten as they continue their innocent games._

_“What troubles you?” His stray hand finds yours as he follows your gaze, but naught remains to see. The children already begin their next journey._

_Fingers twining, you gift him your swelling warmth before returning your attentions to the blissfully clear sky._

_ “Nothing, what would?” _

Cling as you might to the memory, you awaken, only the distant Echo of lost Heavens remaining, fleeting, stolen away before its rightful end.

When you open your eyes, slowly, painfully, vision fading from memory to fantasy, all that remains is a cold bed in hard reality.

The Echo, but _not_ –

Looking up and fully expecting emptiness, to be left to wallow in musing, your eyes widen at the continued presence of he who shares the color of memory.

Any petty squabble you might pick with him seems distant and futile; no longer does a simple glance swell distrust. Any questions you might pose prove equally elusive. You simply _know_.

“’twas beautiful.”

Emet-Selch keeps his peace, the unreadable color of the past continuing his nostalgic vigil.


End file.
